


Mary, mother of our fates

by bluebells



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2011-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael visits her every year on Dean’s birthday and, every year, he brings stories of Dean’s future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mary, mother of our fates

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ienablu in the October 2011 round of Five Acts (aggression, shoving against walls, hurt).

“Mary,” John murmurs, and Mary closes her eyes.

He breathes her name like the whisper of a veil, and when she opens her eyes, she is the hunter, the orphan. She remembers all the times he has visited her before.

Mary, mother of our fates.

“Michael,” she says, turning in her seat at the window, and meets the angel behind her husband’s eyes. “How is he?”

-*-

Dean is a month old when Michael baptises him in his crib before dawn.

“Honey, what are you doing?” Mary leans sleepily against the doorframe of the nursery, pushing a hand through her hair.

She doesn’t see the stiff set of his shoulders, or notice that Michael steadies the mobile of ducks above Dean’s crib with his left hand instead of his right.

“Dean is four when he first rides a bike. He cries a lot, but don’t worry, the wrist fracture heals.”

“… What?” Mary blinks, the hand in her hair falling to her hip.

“If you peel an apple for him, that will comfort him.”

“John, honey, Dean’s too young for--”

He turns around then and a cold, forgotten trepidation tightens in her chest at the look in his eyes.

“My name is Michael. I’m not your husband.”

-*-

Michael visits her every year on Dean’s birthday and, every year, he brings stories of Dean’s future.

“Dean discovered today that he has a talent for baseball.”

“Don’t throw away your husband’s vinyl collection: Dean will love just the same music.”

And he tells her other stories, too.

“He has his first drink when he’s nine. Your husband wasn’t there. Dean doesn’t like it the first time.”

“Dean set a record for being sent to the principal’s office six times in the same week. They’re thinking of suspending him.”

Mary wonders at the stories and if they could be true. She laughs, but she falls to tears when Michael tells her of the first Christmas that Dean and John spend apart. It makes her heart ache that Dean doesn’t have a little brother or sister in these stories to keep him company. Her baby boy sounds like he needs someone.

Mary believes there is a reason why Michael rarely mentions her part in these recollections; the same reason why Michael takes the time to tell her now. She hasn’t decided yet if it’s a cruelty or a kindness, but she grasps for each story with eager hands, a curiosity she can’t stamp down. It delights and horrifies her to learn of what lies ahead.

Mary palms the skin over the ache in her heart. She can’t imagine a life without her family. Instead, it seems they would be the ones meting out an existence without her.

Michael tells her of the future, and at the end of every visit, he reaches for her, his hand brushing her cheek. Mary curves to his touch, her lips to his palm, forgetting this isn’t her husband’s comfort, and when she opens her eyes, Michael’s wall is up, and the memories will sit behind the dam once more.

-*-

 

On January 24 1983, Mary closes the lid of the piano and finds Michael standing at her side.

Michael greets her with a brush of knuckles against her temple, drawing the hair behind her ear. The memories flood back, and she gasps, remembering the person her son will become, remembering every time that Michael has left her oblivious in the circle of John’s arms, smiling up into her husband’s face.

“I’m not in any of the stories after Dean turns four.”

“No,” Michael concedes, and Mary turns to look up at him.

Michael wears John’s body with a calm and immovable assurance. Crumbs from their breakfast still dust the collar of his shirt.

“Is it the yellow-eyed demon? It’s been ten years. He killed my parents.”

“I promise you I won’t let any harm come to Dean.”

A soft sob escapes Mary and she hangs her head. She doesn’t want to die. She wants to watch her son grow up, she wants to wrap her arms around him for the simple want of it, to share his joys, his loves, and his pain. She doesn’t want him to ever hurt, but she can’t protect him if she’s gone.

Mary wants to see her husband’s face when she rolls over in the morning, every morning, until John is gray and wrinkled, and they’re too frail to do more than sit on the front porch and enjoy the sunshine with pitchers of iced tea. She wants a long life with them.

“Mary….” Fingers thread the hair back from her face, but she smacks the angel’s hand away.

“Please, Michael, don’t take my memories this time.”

“I’m sorry, Mary.”

Her heart clenches, then drums loud in anger.

“If you’re really an angel, you could save us.”

When she looks back into his face, Michael is watching her with a soft frown, but there’s no misunderstanding in his expression, and the anger in her chest fans outwards, pushing her shoulders back, curling her hands tight around the edge of the piano seat.

“Mary—“

“Why did you tell me all of this? Why? It’s cruel!” She rises to her feet, pushing into his space when he doesn’t step back. “You can sit up there on your white clouds, but you don’t know what it takes to keep a family together!”

Her hands shove at his shoulders and Michael’s back hits the wall by the window, the morning sun streaming across his profile. He catches her wrist the next time her fist flies and his grip fastens so hard and quick that she gasps, surprised by the strength John had never used against her. Michael pulls her close before she has the time to kick out, and she still fights as Michael holds her hands against his chest, hushing her struggle.

“You’re not taking them,” she vows, yanking and shoving against him, “You’re not taking them away from me.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, searching her face with those blue eyes she’s loved so long. He shakes his head, glancing at their clasped hands between them. “It’s already been written. But… but they won’t be alone. One more will join your family before your time ends here on Earth.”

Mary stiffens. Could he be right?

Another child?

And slowly, it dawns on her: the fatigue, the sensitivity to smells, the midnight cravings for chocolate ice cream and cinnamon donuts….

Her eyes sting with tears and the rush of joy eclipses her rage, almost leaving her numb.

“We’re going to have a baby?” she asks, then sobs with a laugh of disbelief, when Michael nods, a slow smile curving his mouth.

“He’ll be strong and stubborn, and he’ll have such a hunger for knowledge, it will take him places….” Michael shakes his head, the hanging note left uncertain, but Mary’s elation strikes through the shadow in his eyes.

“It’s a boy? Another boy… oh, thank God, they won’t be alone. My _boys--_ “

She trembles, melting against Michael’s chest with the relief and ache of the revelation. She feels the tears drip from her chin to their joined hands, and the angel strokes a thumb over the imprint of his fingertips he’d bruised into her skin. His other hand rubs up her back and his mouth presses to the crown of her hair.

“Heaven is watching over them, Mary. Your sons are very important.”

Yes, they were. It gives her courage. She hides her smile in the warm cotton of John’s shirt.

“Let me remember,” she murmurs, and Michael raises her chin, wiping the tears from her face.

 _I love you_ , she thinks, without wondering if she means it for John or Michael because in this one moment, once a year, they are the same.

She closes her eyes when Michael kisses her for the first and the last time.

And then Michael lets her forget.


End file.
